Friday, 28 May 2010

Childish

In one of the funniest, sharpest pieces I have read this year, Tony Martin rages against the pompous, self-pitying plaints of some bestselling authors:

Why can’t these writers simply be happy with the vast sums of money they earn every year? You don’t hear McDonald’s complaining that they haven’t been awarded three Michelin hats for their latest Bacon Burger DeLuxe. Readers of ‘airport novels’ don’t give a toss about critics or awards, so why should their authors?

American crime writer Lee Child comes across as especially conceited:

Child, on a roll, then declared that literary authors ‘know, in their heart, that we could write their books but they cannot write our books,’ adding that ‘I could write a Martin Amis book. It would take me about three weeks, it would sell about 3000 copies like he sells. And they are jealous of that skill.’